


Flavours of Desire

by WatsonsWarrioress



Series: Never Too Late [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, Desperation, Food Porn, Food Sex, Hand Jobs, John has the best ideas, John is in control, M/M, Male Slash, Mutual Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, blindfold use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 03:15:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2051493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatsonsWarrioress/pseuds/WatsonsWarrioress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Look at it this way,’ John says as he steps behind Sherlock, bringing the scarf up and holding it just in front of Sherlock’s eyes, ‘you get to prove the superiority of your “gustatory system” <i>and</i> be kissed until you come. It’s a win-win situation for you.’</p><p>Written for the “come_at_once” 24 hr porn challenge, from the prompt “artificial flavouring”, this is the third instalment of the Never Too Late series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flavours of Desire

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in three hours, after a long day at work. I apologise in advance for any and all mistakes!

‘Look at it this way,’ John says as he steps behind Sherlock, bringing the scarf up and holding it just in front of Sherlock’s eyes, ‘you get to prove the superiority of your “gustatory system” _and_ be kissed until you come. It’s a win-win situation for you.’

‘That _is_ persuasive … very persuasive in fact.’ Sherlock nods, once, then drops his head slightly, allowing John to blindfold him deftly.

‘Right then.’ John leads Sherlock over to the bed. ‘Get yourself naked and then get comfy. I won’t be long.’

‘Yes John.’ The words would sound sardonic but for the undertone of lust and the fact Sherlock’s already shimmying out of his trousers. John would like to be surprised at the bolt of desire Sherlock’s instant acquiescence sends shooting straight to his cock but … well, he’s already firmly aware of just how little Sherlock has to do to turn him on.

Something he was reminded of only this morning, when Sherlock bounded up the stairs of the crime scene (exposing John to a frankly delicious view of his arse) and then proceeded to rifle through the mind boggling array of sex toys and other paraphernalia he’d unearthed in the victim’s bedside cupboard and pounce on a small tube of cherry flavoured lube with an “ah ha” that sounded so smug it was almost obscene. A noise John could just about have coped with if Sherlock hadn’t then squeezed a blob of the glutinous substance onto his gloved finger and, after a brief sniff, delicately licked it, voicing a soft, inquisitive sound as he did so.

If Anderson hadn’t chosen that precise moment to practically explode with disgust, the moan that had forced its way from John’s chest and out of his mouth would have been extremely embarrassing. As it was, Sherlock’s immediate and eviscerating response to Anderson - which included the sentence “whilst _your_ taste buds may be even more lacking in nuance than your thought processes, _mine_ are honed to perfection and infinitely more useful” - completely distracted all the officers present and offered a solution to the case.  A solution which had, not half an hour ago, been confirmed as entirely correct by a visiting Lestrade.

‘You were spot on,’ he’d said, leaning on the frame of the living room door with a considered nonchalance that did nothing to hide how impressed he was. ‘Poison in the lube, taste masked by the chemicals from the artificial flavouring and the perp protected by a condom. God only knows how you could tell that stuff had cyanide in it from just one tiny lick when it reeked of cherry. Hell, I can still smell it now.’

‘Skill, Lestrade,’ Sherlock had drawled from where he was draped over the couch. ‘Skill and practice. I have made it my business to make my gustatory system as precise and effective as possible and entirely non-reliant on my olfactory system.’ He shifted, pushing himself up on his elbows and fixing his gaze on Lestrade’s face. ‘If I wasn’t very much attached to John I’d prove it to you now by kissing you and then telling you everything you’d eaten today. That said,’ Sherlock swung his legs off the sofa and made to stand up. ‘John’s always been very understanding about experimental proof, so if you’d like a demonstration then …’

Sherlock didn’t get to finish his sentence, Lestrade spluttering like a pot boiling over and practically falling down the stairs in his effort to get away.

‘You’re a bad man,’ John had said whilst trying not to laugh. ‘You could have just asked him to leave.’

‘Boring.’ Sherlock flopped back onto the sofa. ‘Besides, I’ve never actually tried to do that from a kiss before. It might have been interesting … academically speaking.’

At which point John’s cock informed John’s brain that the idea of Sherlock identifying foodstuffs from a kiss was definitely more than academically interesting. The rest of his body clearly agreed as he was on his feet, mouth forming the words, ‘I think this is another thing it’s most certainly not too late to try. And I have an idea as to exactly how we can do this,’ before he’d really thought it all through.

Hence why he’s now rummaging frantically through the kitchen, desperately trying to find items appropriate to the experiment in their rather sparse collection of food.

‘Poppadums and chutney … nope,' he mutters under his breath, 'frozen peas … absolutely not. But … ah, yes … this is perfect … And these … And oh … yes! Brilliant!’

‘I'm _waiting_ , John!’

‘Coming,’ John yells back, dumping everything on a tray and then making his precarious way back to the bedroom.

‘You better not have fiddled with your blindfold,’ he says as he shoulders open the door and then pauses, holding the tray in the hallway so it's hidden from view, just in case.

Not that he needs to. Sherlock hasn’t tampered with the scarf at all, the deep blue cloth still properly affixed, hiding his eyes but accentuating the mop of black curls and the flush on his cheeks. A flush which is mottling Sherlock’s neck and chest as well and John can’t help but track it with his gaze, mapping every contour of the rose and alabaster body that is spread out on their bed at his behest.

Sherlock may not be able to see but he's clearly aware of the scrutiny he is under, the flush darkening and spreading with every passing second. ‘John?’ he rumbles, voice low and with no hint of the commanding tone from minutes earlier.

‘I’m here.’ John carefully sets the tray on the bedside table then strips his own clothes off swiftly and efficiently. ‘Just admiring the incredibly decadent plate I’m about to eat from.’

Sherlock gives a soft laugh and his cock - which had already been half hard when John walked in - swells to full erection. John’s rapidly follows suit as he moves over to the bed and bends over Sherlock.

‘I'd better give you your base line first,’ he murmurs against Sherlock’s lips, ‘for proper comparison.’

Sherlock surges into the kiss, hands coming up to cradle John’s head as he invades John’s mouth with devastating intent. John had thought Sherlock might be a little clinical in his approach, but he couldn’t have been more wrong. The swirling and swiping of Sherlock’s tongue as it catalogues every millimetre of John’s mouth somehow managing to infuse the kiss with a level of passion that steals John’s breath from his lungs. John sinks onto the bed, into the kiss, into Sherlock, giving himself up to the sensations until Sherlock pulls back and - with an imperious tilt of his head that leaves John in no doubt what his expression would look like were the blindfold not obscuring it – says, ‘Aren’t you hungry?’

‘Ravenous.’ John nips briefly at the join between Sherlock’s neck and shoulder as he reaches for the first item of food and instructs, ‘You don’t touch any part of your own body from this moment on.'

Sherlock huffs out a breath but nods, so John lifts up Sherlock’s right hand and begins painting his fingers with the hastily cut fruit. Sherlock’s cock twitches at the sensation and his lips part, tongue flicking out to wet them, but he doesn’t make a sound. Well, not until John starts to taste by engulfing Sherlock’s fingers right down to the knuckle. At which point Sherlock utters a groan that shakes his entire body and then morphs into a series of staccato, cut-off breaths as John sucks and laves and teases until well after all the juice is gone.

The kiss that follows is fierce, violent almost, Sherlock's hands fisting painfully into John’s hair as he plunders John’s mouth.

‘Nectarine,’ Sherlock gasps when John finally pulls back. ‘Spain or Portugal, can’t tell which.’

‘Spain.’ John cups Sherlock’s cheek in his right hand, running his thumb briefly over his cheekbone as he tries to contain his astonishment. ‘Not that it matters, it’s impressive enough that you didn’t mistake it for a peach …’ Sherlock arches into the touch, smile curling the corner of his mouth.

‘I did say.’

‘So you did. Ready for the next one?’

‘God, yes!’

The next hour starts with giggles, as John writes words in greengage jam (from the hamper Mycroft sent last Christmas) across Sherlock’s arms but progresses to moans, sighs and gasps as cream and chocolate spread are traced over Sherlock’s stomach and hips. Then John really starts to push his luck, smearing honey infused with different herbs and flowers over Sherlock’s inner thighs, groin and cock and then using lips, hands and tongue to take Sherlock to the brink of orgasm, leaving him nearly sobbing into the kisses that follow.

‘Sussex honey with r-rose petal … oh god, I need … John, please.’

‘Just one more to get and then you can come.’

‘One?’

‘Yes, love, just one.’

The last item has melted a bit more than John had anticipated, so instead of spreading it on with his fingers he simply pours it over Sherlock’s chest, revelling in the way Sherlock gasps, nipples peaking further the instant the first, icy drops land on his chest.

‘I-ice cream?’ Sherlock stutters, fingers flexing at his sides as the liquid trickles over his chest and down, starting to pool in the concave arc of his belly, mingling with the dribbles of pre-come falling from his visibly throbbing, spit slick cock.

‘No touching, remember,’ John orders, ignoring the incorrect guess. He waits until Sherlock flattens his hands against the mattress before he leans down and begins lapping it up. His chest is brushing Sherlock’s cock with every movement and his left hand, which he isn’t using to brace himself, is dancing up and down Sherlock’s thigh in counterpoint to every swipe of his tongue, making Sherlock babble pleas for release to the ceiling. John doesn’t blame him, his own cock is so hard it’s starting to hurt. He may be taking Sherlock to the brink of his endurance but he’s close to his own limit as well.

But the experiment isn’t done, so he concentrates on the sharp flavour of the melting sorbet instead. It’s a wonderful contrast to the sugary-sweetness of the honey and John savours every morsel, licking slowly and deliberately, so that by the time he has caught every last drop Sherlock is almost undone beneath him as he writhes on the wrinkled, food dotted sheets. He’s arching up into every single bit of contact, clearly desperate for release, hands now in a white knuckle grip on the headboard and his whole body glistening with sweat and spit. John barely starts to move up the bed to kiss Sherlock before Sherlock is reaching for him, hands scrabbling desperately at his shoulders, legs banding round his hips, pulling John in and pressing their neglected erections together.

And John’s restraint finally breaks. He surges forward, nipping and biting at Sherlock’s mouth as they rut against each other frantically, cocks gloriously slick with spit and pre-come. Sherlock is quivering in John’s arms, making tiny mewling noises in the back of his throat as he comes in thick, hot spurts over John’s cock and stomach. And that is all it takes to narrow John’s consciousness to the sweet ache curling deep in his gut as it explodes in fiery lances through his veins.

‘Sicilian lemon sorbet,’ Sherlock murmurs once John has come back to himself enough to move off Sherlock and prop himself up at his side. ‘Yes?’

‘Yes,’ John gently tugs the blindfold up, smiling down at Sherlock who is blinking rapidly in the light. ‘Spot on again.’

Sherlock smiles back, reaching up and tugging John into another kiss, this one lazy, soft and sweet. When they finally break apart Sherlock runs his tongue over his swollen lips.

‘The flavours of desire,’ he murmurs, eyes drifting closed, ‘I wonder how many more I can identify.’

‘As many as you like,’ John says quietly as, heedless of the mess, he curls himself round Sherlock and gives into his own exhaustion. ‘As many as you like.’


End file.
